Collide
by Best Damn Avocado
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and Natasha Romanoff are a pair of art thieves working on opposite sides. Natlock oneshot. Thieves AU.


**Collide**

Sherlock Holmes was no mere art thief.

He was an art _connoisseur_.

Paint strokes on canvas spoke to him like blood spatters at a murder scene to a detective's fine-tuned eye. He could read hours upon hours of work and creative genius in the minutest flash of color and recall every detail from memory at a moment's notice.

His mind palace was filled to the brim with paintings and techniques, and the smell of acrylic and turpentine drifted down its corridors.

Sherlock was the world's one and only consulting art expert during the day—a veritable virtuoso in a bespoke suit and Italian leather shoes—and one of the foremost art thieves in the world by night.

Though perhaps _thief_ wasn't quite as accurate as some would be inclined to believe. The world's governments sanctioned his work after all. His so-called thefts involved merely the retrieval of insured paintings stolen by a third party from privately owned and government museums, much like a bounty hunter would a fugitive.

There was only one other who matched his skill when it came to thievery, but where he made his name as an expert she made it as a forger. Theft was merely a means to an end for both. They were also on opposite sides of the law, orbiting round each other like binary stars. Sometimes they drifted so far from each other they'd barely notice the other's presence. More often than not, they came so close it was a wonder they didn't consume each other in a flash.

Her work was unparalleled. He'd seen and kept enough of it to know.

And he was convinced he was staring right at it.

Sherlock had been commissioned by the British Government to retrieve one of Degas' minor works: an art study of a redheaded ballerina mid-dance, housed in the underground vault of a well-to-do, if somewhat corrupt, family's estate just outside of London. The framed illustration he currently held in his hands was not it—but it was _flawless_.

Perfectly reproduced technique and impeccably matched coloring. If it had brushed past anyone else's hands, Sherlock knew without a doubt they would have been fooled. But his were not just anyone else's hands and he wasn't fooled.

He also wasn't leaving the estate without the original and the familiar smell of Clive Christian No. 1 in the air told him the artist and thief—one and the same—couldn't be too far ahead of him.

Stripping the illustration from its frame, he rolled it carefully into the specially designed tube meant to house it and sealed it. He then discarded the frame and scribbled a note on a piece of paper he recovered from his pocket. He turned on his heel when he was done, only to pause and lift his eyes to the ceiling where a smiling face propped on folded arms peeked at him from an open ventilation shaft.

Green eyes locked with blue, and he felt his own lips twitching briefly into a smile. "Natalia Romanova," he greeted formally. "We meet again."

"I go by Natasha Romanoff nowadays," she informed him conversationally in her pleasantly husky voice. "Expert opinion?"

"On your piece?" Sherlock held her gaze. "Flawless, but you know that already."

"Not flawless enough to fool you," she retorted.

"Nothing's flawless enough to fool me."

Natasha smiled. "What about me?"

"What _about_ you?"

"Expert opinion," she pressed. "What do you think? We've been crossing paths long enough, haven't we?"

Sherlock had developed his _expert_ opinion on her over the years. Masterful. Cunning. Dedicated to a fault and a near genius with a paintbrush. _Talented_. Natalia Romanova—Natasha Romanoff—made his job all the more challenging with her forgeries. If she wasn't so hell-bent on working on the wrong side of the law, his brother might've offered her a job similar to his own.

"My expertise doesn't extend to people," he lied.

"Too bad." Natasha reached behind within the shaft and produced a tube identical to the one he held in his hand. Long red hair spilled in loose curls just past the opening. "I'm assuming you'd like the original?"

"I certainly didn't come here for a forgery," he said smoothly.

"You can have both." Natasha slithered her lithe body out of the shaft's opening and dropped silently in front of him with a small bag strapped to her back. "Since you like my work so much," she added with a smile.

He eyed her inviting expression with detached calculation. He knew enough of her to know she wasn't making a selfless offer. "In exchange for what?"

"Smart man." She crowded into his personal space and he moved forward, standing mere inches apart so that only a breath and the delicate smell of her expensive perfume filled the space between. "Let's discuss the price over dinner."

Sherlock huffed. "All this trouble just to ask me out on a date? Could've called."

"It's not as fun," she protested.

"And it's not my area," he retorted.

"Doesn't have to be." Natasha smiled again. "It's just dinner. Just once and I won't ask again."

Sherlock's gaze swept over her face. "I've got a counteroffer," he rumbled, and Natasha's smile dimmed on a hitched breath.

Her eyes darted to his lips. "I'm listening."

There was perhaps a moment of hesitation—whether to calculate the consequences or the trajectory would later be a mystery to both—and then their lips collided in a burning kiss that was all heat and flashing sparks. Sherlock buried a hand in Natasha's mess of red hair and her body melted gradually against his.

He walked her backwards until she was pressed against the concrete wall and pinned her with his body as her arms circled his neck. Her hand opened to drop the tube she'd been holding as leverage in their bargain—the tube with the _original_ Degas—and it clattered quietly to the floor.

Sherlock resisted the urge to count himself victorious just yet. Instead he removed his hand from her hair, sliding it down her side and beneath her leather jacket, skimming her curves with his fingertips until he reached her hip.

Her own hands moved to curl around the collar of his jacket and he dropped the tube housing the forgery to slide his now free hand beneath her shirt, keeping the tiny piece of paper he'd scribbled on before pinched between two fingers. Her distracted gasp against his lips gave him an opening to tuck it inside her jean's pocket and pull away with a ragged breath.

Natasha opened dazed green eyes halfway. "What the hell was _that_?"

Sherlock gathered the original and the forgery from the floor in one graceful move, walking backwards from the wall. "Business," he told her formally, if a little breathlessly.

Natasha pushed herself off the wall but he held up both tubes as a warning. "I estimate you'll have around four minutes to make it out of here once I turn round this corner," he panted. "Should give you just enough time to check your pockets and avoid security. Until next time, Miss Romanoff."

Natasha rifled through her pockets just as the alarm blared in warning, finding the crumpled piece of paper a moment later. _Tomorrow at Angelo's, 7 pm. –SH_

A running start and a skillful jump had her slithering back into the ventilation shaft in record time. In less than three minutes she was out of the house completely but in her head she was doing other math—minus two paintings, plus one date, a hell of a kiss and half a smile.

Natasha had always preferred paintbrushes to numbers, but as she disappeared into the shadows she thought that maybe—just maybe—that was math she could live with.


End file.
